


Bottles

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:52:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are so many things he could say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottles

There are so many things Sherlock could say. He could say _wait, don’t go_ , he could say _alone only protected me until I met you_ , he could say _you are everything I never knew I needed_ , he could say _I love you_.

But he lets John walk out. He lets him walk about because _“you machine_ ” is as good a conformation as any that it won’t change anything, not a thing.

-

He could say _I will love you always,_ he could say _be careful,_ he could say _miss me, please, I have never had anyone miss me before._ He could say nothing at all.

So, instead, he tells half-truths and lies.

“It’s all a trick.”

-

John needs to say _I’m sorry._ He needs to say _Sherlock, come down, please, we can talk_. He needs to say _I love you,_ because otherwise Sherlock might never get to hear it and that would be a crying shame.

But he doesn’t.

Because Sherlock says, “Goodbye John” and then all he can say is Sherlock’s name, but then again the way he says it is sort of like _I love you._

But it doesn’t matter because Sherlock’s dead and the last thing John said to his face was _“you machine_.”

“Sherlocksherlocksherlock,” comes out of his mouth, starting at Sherlock’s lovely, dead face, his voicebox a record that has gotten stuck.

-

John should say _I hate you._ John should say _fuck you and your cheekbones_. John should say _get out of my flat, that’s right_ my _flat, you arrogant sod._

But instead he sort of laugh sobs, pounding on Sherlock’s chest like a door, his fist echoing through the chest of a dead man, feeling the heartbeat that shouldn’t be there ( _but he is so terribly glad that it is, so glad_ ).

“I’m sorry, I love you,” Sherlock mumbles, endlessly, “forgive me, I love you, I needed to keep you safe, I love you.”

“You arse,” thump, thump, thump, “I love you, you selfish bastard, you arse,” and then suddenly they’re talking through one another’s lips, two bottles without stops, words that should have been said and will never be wasted again, because, _oh god, the building and the blood_ —

“I love you,” loop and loop, an explosion of feelings from John, transferred to Sherlock—

“I love you,” endless loop, who says what, doesn’t matter, it’s all the same because—

 _never leave, never will, I love you, I love you, won’t happen again, best fucking better not, I love you, I know, please, okay, more, yes, I love you_ —

Bottles without stops.


End file.
